


can you hear me calling

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Blind Date, F/M, Meet-Cute, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disastrous blind date turns into the best evening Lane Pryce has had in years. Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can you hear me calling

For what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes, Lane glanced around the busy restaurant in a panic, scanning the crowded bar and the area near the bustling front doors for any sign of someone trying to get his attention. He was hoping not to draw more pitiful stares. It had already been over an hour, and people around him had begun to nudge their dinner companions with meaningful looks.

The woman obviously wasn’t coming.

Lane had only agreed to go on this date as a matter of principle—he really wasn’t interested in getting out, and hadn’t even met this woman, just knew that she was Walt’s wife’s friend’s _something_ and that she was a brunette— _flirty,_ _very funny._ Lane privately thought that description meant she would turn out to be a dyed-dark sixty with a horrid laugh—but he didn’t assume it meant he would be sitting alone in a restaurant on a Friday night, like some pathetic teenager. At least, not until the first ten minutes had passed. Then he’d been frantic. He’d phoned Walt, who hadn’t answered, then the office, and then his phone had started flashing the low battery signal. He hadn’t known who else to call.

He looked up from fiddling with the wooden ring holding his cloth napkin and noticed the waiter was staring at him again. The servers kept coming by his table every few minutes, offering him wine, an appetizer, extra bread, then making more and more pointed suggestions—we could call her for you, we could page her over the intercom, are you sure you have the right restaurant? Are you sure you don’t want to move to the bar? 

He hadn’t known how to admit that he hadn’t even met the woman, and wouldn’t know her from Adam, so Lane just kept apologizing and repeating the stupidest sentence in the world. _I don’t know what’s happened—she’s normally very punctual!_

Just as the waiter had clearly begun the long walk back to Lane’s table - and if he came over one more time, Lane was going to pretend his date had phoned and would slip away in shame - he was bumped aside in the aisle by a stunningly beautiful woman with upswept red hair, wearing a low cut burgundy dress and carrying a brown leather satchel and white leather purse, which had a patterned silk scarf tied to its handle. She seemed as if she were in quite a rush, and for some inexplicable reason, she stopped at his table.

“Honey, I am so sorry! Please don’t be upset.” She dropped her attaché and purse into the chair across from his, then stepped over and closed the distance between them with remarkable speed. Like it was nothing, she put one hand on his arm, and leaned down and kissed his cheek, her voice low and insistent in his ear.

“I’m Joan. Play along.”

“Wh—” Lane sputtered, as she pulled away, and fondly patted his shoulder. Her floral perfume lingered, making him a little dazed. “You—” 

“I got pulled into a meeting with creative at six o’clock,” she continued loudly, as if his complete bewilderment was normal. She hung her satchel on the back of her chair, placed her purse under the table, and took a seat, unfolding her napkin as she talked. “They were all drunk. Nobody would shut up.”

“How, erm, awful?” was all Lane could think to say.

She — had she said her name was Joan? — was now looking around with a sympathetic expression, reaching across the table to briefly press her hand over his before picking up her menu. “God. I can’t believe you didn’t even order a drink. You must be starving.”

Around them, he could see people staring in clear surprise, but no one seemed to think that he and this woman didn’t know each other, or that he could never have been waiting on someone like her to join him.

The waiter, who kept his distance as Joan settled in, now approached their table with something approaching graciousness. 

“And how are we doing tonight?” The boy’s voice had lost its formerly condescending edge, and when he glanced over at Lane it was as if he were trying to convey some sort of signal with a raised eyebrow.

“Very well, thank you.” Joan gave the waiter a brilliant smile as he poured water into both their glasses, and then turned this smile on Lane, who nearly blushed at the sight. She really was gorgeous. He’d never been out with a woman like this before. “Please get this dear man a drink. He’s a good sport.”

“Nothing for you?” the waiter pressed.

“I haven’t decided,” she said lightly, waving away the lad’s attention and looking at Lane over the top of her menu. “Darling? Anything for now?” 

“Erm.” Lane didn’t know what to think about being addressed by so many pet names, and had to clear his throat. “Glass of merlot, please.”

Joan handed the waiter her drink menu. “Whatever you’d recommend. Make it two.”

Once they were safely alone, Lane felt he could speak honestly, keeping his voice low. “Sorry. Erm. I—still don’t understand—why you’re here.”

One corner of her mouth quirked up, but this time, she didn’t seem to be teasing him, and turned serious rather quickly. “I’ve been sitting in the bar. You waited over an hour.”

“God.” Lane was blushing now. She must have realized what was happening, and decided to take pity on him. “Well, I—I don’t know what happened. It was supposed to be—it was a blind date, actually. I don’t usually do those.” He sighed. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“No,” Joan replied coolly. “If this woman didn’t show, I think she’s an ass.”

He felt one corner of his mouth twitch up, slightly. “Wouldn’t put it that way.” 

“I would.” She lifted one eyebrow in a way that indicated saying anything less harsh would be dishonest. “I’ve been stood up, too. It’s awful.”

“You’re joking,” Lane was dumbstruck by the very idea. Who the hell would cancel on a woman like you?

He didn’t realize he’d said that aloud until she huffed out a little laugh through her nose, which he found very endearing. “My ex-husband. Suffice to say it’s not the worst thing he ever did.”

“Ah,” Lane thought he understood what that meant – a nasty split. “How long ago did you, erm, divorce?”

“Two years,” she told him. “Are you—?”

Lane nodded, and leaned back in his chair. “Yes. Erm, it’s not terribly long. Only a year, but the process was—” he grimaced, suddenly wondering why he felt compelled to tell all this to a perfect stranger. “Well, you probably know. Took a long time.”

“True. But mine was ugly.” She took a drink of her water, and gave him another little smile—as if they were sharing a fascinating secret. In this light, he suddenly noticed that her eyes were a striking blue of the shade and color usually found by tropical beaches. “I hope yours wasn’t.”

Lane sighed, remembering the way he had been forced to say goodbye to Nigel over the telephone. “Unfortunately, not the case.”

The waiter returned to their table, and dropped off two glasses of red wine—the pours enormous this time, had they been skimping before?— a small breadbasket, and a little tray of cheese, olives, and assorted meats. “Compliments of the chef,” the boy said in an oily way, as he set the last item down onto the table between them, along with two small plates. “Bon appétit.”

“Looks delicious _._ Please thank him for us,” Joan replied smoothly, acting as if his snobbish manner didn’t bother her a bit.

Lane was frowning at the bounty, now, torn between impressed and outraged as the waiter departed. “They barely even gave me water, before.”

“Probably trying to kick you out, but it didn’t work.” She started laughing as she said this, which made Lane laugh, too, for the first time in two hours. 

“Thanks to you.” He raised his wine glass as if in a toast. She had saved him from having to slink out of this place in humiliation, for which he would always be very grateful.

She picked up her own glass, clinked the side to his, and then took a small sip of her wine. “I just realized I don’t even know your name.”

** 

“—and now I do private investments and financial planning for the 4As. Among other things.” 

“You know, I almost went the finance route,” she told him slyly, as the waiter was clearing the appetizer plates. “I always enjoyed math. But I was better at accounts.”

“Oh, I never could stand the accounts men,” Lane sighed, then closed his mouth quickly once he realized what he’d said. 

She didn’t seem offended. “Well, to quote an old coworker, we’re not all prep schoolers joined together by our lack of skill and love of mirrors.”

Lane burst out laughing. That was more or less his experience with the other accounts men he’d met. Least she had sense enough to understand what she was up against. 

** 

“Christ. That was _your_ farewell party?”

Apparently, they’d both worked for the same company, for a brief period of time, anyway. McCann Erickson had bought a private firm called Sterling Cooper, they’d brought Lane in to manage the transition – which he’d been able to do mostly through email and weekly status meetings with the senior partners – and had shipped him right back out the door, six months later.

He couldn’t believe, in all that time, that he and Joan had never met. The joint company had leased five floors in the same building – you’d think they’d at least have passed in the lift, or something.

“I can’t believe you heard about that.” Joan was giggling as she talked, putting one hand to her face. Lane found he liked her more and more with every minute. “You didn’t even work on that floor!”

He put on a faux-stern voice. “When someone loses his foot in a lawnmower accident, there tends to be a circulating story.”

“Oh, my god,” Joan said again, dryly, shaking her head and reaching for her almost-empty wine glass. They’d finally given up on the idea of single glasses and ordered the full bottle. “Well, I did everything I could. I’m going to state that for the official record.” 

“Noted,” Lane replied primly.

She frowned at him after he said this, as if he was missing something. “You know I went with him to the hospital, right?”

“That isn’t funny,” Lane chided. 

“Who do you think kept him from bleeding out?” she scoffed, with a look that said he was treading on dangerous ground. “Roger Sterling?” 

It took him a few more seconds to catch on. Someone would have had to administer first aid – people who were there had kept saying the chap nearly got his foot torn off, and the ambulance didn’t get there quickly enough – 

“Hang on. You’re the woman in the green dress?” He was awed all over again. Never mind the lawnmower – the story of the person who’d saved the day had circulated for years. _Looked like Jackie O, by way of Clara Barton. Covered in blood. Held his foot together with her bare hands._ He’d always imagined it was some iron-grey spinster from project management, not—someone like Joan.

“That’s what they said?” she echoed, seeming unimpressed. “Jesus.”

But the corners of her mouth were turning up again now.

“To the company legend,” Lane said, raising his glass to her again. She raised hers with a grin, and they both drank.

** 

“Ended up being Hong Kong instead of Bombay,” he told her, pushing leftover pasta around his plate with his fork. The food had been very good tonight. Much nicer meal than he had expected. “Very crowded—and a bit strange at first—but not as horrible as I had thought it might be. I grew to appreciate it. Least—this was right before Becca and I—”

“Is that why she left?” Joan asked, but cast her gaze to one side after she’d said this. “Tell me if I’m being too rude.”

Lane shrugged. “No, you aren’t. It was—well, you’d think the move would have been the last straw, but it wasn’t, not really. We’d been fighting for so long, and neither of us wanted to admit—“ 

He glanced up from his plate and noticed she was listening very intently. Probably shouldn’t dwell on these things.

“Anyway, once Hong Kong was done, as soon as she heard we were headed back to New York and not to London...that was it. And I—I was invited to the 4As soon afterward, so it wasn’t long afterward that they offered me full-time work.”

Joan’s expression was slightly shadowed – part sympathy, part something else that he wasn’t sure he was allowed to address. Lane decided to stay quiet. It seemed as if she were on the edge of saying something very important.

“Greg cheated on me,” she finally told him, and he could see the hesitation on her face as she said it aloud—it truly embarrassed her. “With some woman from his deployment. And I didn’t call him on it until I got pregnant, but after Kevin was born…” she lifted her hands with a sigh. “I told him he could be here for us or he could go back.”

She let out a breath, wrinkling her nose in a way that told him what the fool had chosen in the end. 

“That’s horrible,” Lane breathed, reaching across the table to touch her hand. He knew how painful it was to have someone be unfaithful. 

Her voice was very even, but she still seemed subdued when she smiled. “Well. I wasn’t cut out to be an army wife. That’s all.”

“I’m sure you were wonderful,” he said immediately. “I mean—despite—” 

She flexed her fingers up against the bottom of his palm, almost playful, although when her eyes snapped to his, it was as if she was searching his face to make sure he was being truthful. “You don’t have to say that.”

“Well, I think you are, so I’m saying it,” he insisted – perhaps a bit tipsy after all the wine – and when she looked at him again, expression soft around the corners, and mouth curling up into a pleased smile, he felt his stomach flip in happy anticipation.

** 

“I still don’t understand why you came over in the first place,” Lane’s spoon was poised over their piece of tiramisu, trying to gauge how large a bite he could take without being too greedy. Joan had requested dessert, and he certainly wouldn’t deny her that, but then she’d surprised him by insisting they share it—had the waiter bring two spoons and everything. 

As soon as the words had left his mouth, he wanted to kick himself.

Joan was laughing a little as she swiped whipped cream from one corner of her mouth with the pad of her thumb. It was so distracting that he almost missed the beginning of her next sentence.

“You’ll think I’m very shallow,” she told him with a smirk, taking another sip of her wine. “So don’t judge me.”

He pulled a solemn face. “I would never.”

“Okay. Then I’ll admit it. I liked your suit.” She was twirling her spoon between two fingers, voice nonchalant. “And your glasses. You look handsome. Not many men dress well, these days.”

The back of his neck got hot. Lane was so stunned he almost dropped his spoon into the floor. She had—she thought he looked good?

“No, well, I could never compete with you.” He was halfway into the next compliment before he realized it might sound odd. “You’re like a—Singer Sargent painting come to life.”

Joan’s smile lit up her entire face. He felt a surge of happiness in his chest--and when she winked at him, he felt excitement flutter up, too.

“You are too much.” She reached over to touch his arm as she spoke—sending the butterflies in his stomach into overdrive. “I can’t believe someone hasn’t snapped you up already.” 

**

When they were due to leave, things became slightly awkward again. Lane paid the check – he insisted, despite the fact that she kept trying to snatch the bill from his hand – and after that was done, there really was no reason to delay.

Except that they did, and then the restaurant finally booted them out, so they ended up on the street together, trying to hail a passing cab. 

Lane had been trying to work up the nerve to tell Joan that he wanted to see her again, except that every time he tried to get the words out, he’d feel his heart speed up and his palms sweat and feel ridiculous. So he’d delay it another minute. And now the cab was here—of course it had stopped for Joan—and he had to tell her how much he’d enjoyed the evening, how happy he was that she’d decided to sit down with him, but he couldn’t.

Joan put her purse and attaché into the cab first, then turned to the driver. “Hang on a minute.” 

She turned to Lane, looking suddenly shy, although her voice was as confident as ever. “Sure you don’t want a ride?”

“Oh,” he demurred. “No, I live—fairly close. I was just going to walk.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Maybe next time.” 

A small silence lingered. He glanced away from her for a moment, then steeled his nerves, determined not to muck this up—until he realized what she’d said. Next time?

They both spoke at once.

“Hang on—did you—?”

“I was thinking—”

They both stopped talking. He was horribly embarrassed. “Erm. What I meant to tell you was that—I just thought, since tonight was so nice, we could possibly—”

Lane was so tongue-tied he couldn’t finish the sentence, so it was a relief when Joan spoke up.

“Do you want to go out again?”

His eyes widened, surprised (and relieved) that she’d gone straight to the point. “Well—yes. I would.” 

“Thank god.” Joan sighed as she stepped forward, put her arms around his shoulders, and kissed his cheek again. This time, he got goosebumps all over, and when she drew back from him, she seemed very aware of how close they were standing together, glancing down at him through her lashes. He could hardly meet her gaze. His hand hovered close to her left hip, unsure if he could touch her, but he wanted to—very much. “I’m free next Saturday.”

She pulled a business card from the purse on her arm and pushed this card into his jacket pocket, seeming to enjoy the way he squirmed as her fingertips brushed against his chest.

“Wrote down my number when you were in the restroom,” she said with a little laugh.

“That’s brilliant.” He was laughing, too—slightly breathless, and supplied her with his own before he could get too distracted. “Erm. I’ll—phone you with the time, then. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Was tomorrow too soon? Was tonight? Could he phone her when he got home without seeming too desperate? 

“That sounds great,” she said, and smiled at him again before getting into the idling cab.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. 

_I don’t usually text, but just wanted to say I’m really glad I met you. ;-) Enjoy your walk._

This made him grin for the entire rest of his walk home. _Really glad I met you. Really glad._ Oh, god, he was already useless, just looking at it, with the little smiley face and everything.

He bumped into Walt on Monday morning in the office kitchen.

“Hey, ladykiller. How was your date with Grace?”

Stirring sugar into his tea, Lane snorted out a laugh—having forgotten he was ever supposed to meet anyone called Grace. He’d spent all weekend daydreaming of Joan—her beautiful red hair, her laugh, the way she kept putting her hand on his arm all through dinner.

To add to his good mood, he’d finally worked up the nerve to ring her on Saturday morning, hoping for twenty minutes of easy conversation. In the end, they’d talked for two hours. They’d met up for lunch yesterday afternoon, while her mother and son were out.

“Oh. That. Well, to be honest, she never showed up.” 

Walt looked horrified. Lane was trying not to smirk.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Fleetwood Mac song "[Everywhere](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FsglRLoUdtc)," which I pictured playing in the restaurant at some point (along with Marvin Gaye's "[Got To Give It Up, Pt. 1](https://youtu.be/fp7Q1OAzITM).")
> 
> I saw the prompt on tumblr under an OTP blog and couldn't resist gender-flipping it: "imagine that you've been stood up by your douche of a [date] and the waitress keeps asking if you're ready to order but you keep asking for more time hoping he's just late. people are starting to look at you with those apologetic looks like they know and you start to feel worse and worse about the whole situation but just as you decide to just get up and leave, this guy you've never seen sits down explaining loudly "sorry i'm so late, babe, traffic is crazy right now," and he quietly adds, "i'm michael. just go with it." ...and so you do go with it because he's being sweet and trying to save you (and plus he's the cutest thing you've ever seen) and as you're leaving the restaurant after the best non-planned date ever, he asks you out for real this time."


End file.
